


Two Sides

by Diana_Prallon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Break Up, Complicated Relationships, Episode Related, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, S05e09, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Supportive Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana_Prallon/pseuds/Diana_Prallon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I hardly ever feel inspired anymore, and much less about Teen Wolf; still, this episode got my friends VERY ANGRY, and I was already drowning in feels after reading the end of Loaded March; marathoning HIMYM and working 12 hours, SO I think it just happened. Hopefully, not TERRIBLY.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Cast Me Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dark_K](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_K/gifts).



> I hardly ever feel inspired anymore, and much less about Teen Wolf; still, this episode got my friends VERY ANGRY, and I was already drowning in feels after reading the end of Loaded March; marathoning HIMYM and working 12 hours, SO I think it just happened. Hopefully, not TERRIBLY.

He wasn't good enough.

He had failed – he was a failure, the ultimate failure, without having ever been an experiment. It didn’t even matter that it wasn’t mercury pouring out of his body; it was worse; so much worse because nothing, ever would get out again. He wasn’t bleeding, he wasn’t struggling. His body seemed ready to go on even devoid of a soul.

That what happens when you get too close to the supernatural; it touches you, infects you. He wasn’t living anymore, but he also wasn’t dead – he was a zombie.

… Maybe that was what zombies were; bodies that kept going in spite of not having a soul anymore, in spite of their hearts being ripped out without ever leaving their enclose space.

Because he had been right to be scared, he had been right to hide – Scott could never understand what he did. He would never forgive. He trusted everyone, but not the boy that he had called his best friend for over a decade.

This was how their story ended; with blood on his hand and rage in his heart.

Stiles didn’t even notice where he was going until he was in the middle of the woods; his hands shaking and his face tainted with tears that he couldn’t even feel. He stopped, walked out and stared at the empty clearing where once something stood – a place where there had been a family, love, affection, safety. It was all gone, dry leaves and red-brown earth mutely staring back at him.

He walked right to the middle of the emptiness, and didn’t even feel himself hitting the ground: knees deep into the wet soil. He couldn’t hear his own sobbing and barely felt the growl that was ripped from his throat and echoed throughout the forest around him, scaring the animals that might have grown used to werewolves, but not to that amount of pain.

Stiles’ shoulders were rocking as he kept on weeping without noticing. His mind kept circling around the same things again and again.

He wasn’t good enough – not pure enough – to be a part of Scott’s pack; not anymore.

He was left behind, alone and afraid, as if he had never been more than an accessory that hadn’t proved as high quality as they had thought.

Maybe the others didn’t agree with Scott’s posturing, but they weren’t fighting for him either – he had never been one of them, not really. Too weak, too fragile, too _human_.

He had never truly belonged.

Stiles allowed his body to sag against the soft cover of mud, not caring about how would it look afterwards. It wasn’t as if someone would see or care. Nobody had ever done.

How ironic it was that the first time that Scott had heard his pleading for not trusting everyone was when the accused was himself?

He had protected Kira while she lost control and murdered someone. He had accepted Aiden and Ethan after they had killed their friends. He had taken Allison back even after she had tortured innocent people. He had trusted Isaac although he had hurt him. He had forgiven Jackson for all humiliations as if it was nothing. He had _respected_ Derek in spite of, well, loads of things. _Hell_ , He had even understood _Peter_ and his insanity, or at least kept hope he could be turned towards “the light”.   
  
Suddenly, it made so much sense in his head – why they all had left him. Scott’s continuous goodness made them feel tainted; his impossible demands were too much for anyone who was, beneath it all, just human: imperfect and incomplete. As Peter would say, they were all works in progress – but not Scott, no, he believed himself to be so impossibly good that he no longer could see the gray areas where most of them had to walk in order to simply survive.

  
Then again, how harshly had _he_ judged others when facing death?

Maybe it was all his fault, maybe he had been the one to set such high standards with all his “don’t forget” crap. He certainly never expected to be on the other side of that line; looking in and knowing that he was _not that good_.

Perhaps he was just a monster – he hadn’t lied to Theo; his first thought when seeing Donavan’s body _had been_ “good”. It _was_ good: for his own survival, for his dad, for _them_ to have one less insane chimera roaming around and spreading chaos.

But if it _was_ good, why did it feel so terrible? As if something was crashing down inside his chest, crushing him; as if he was a hollow doll being smashed by the world?

Why did it feel like death?

(He didn’t even mind the darkness overcoming him)

 


	2. Pick Me Up

Stiles couldn't have pointed out what woke him up. He blinked twice, trying to understand what had happened; his clothes still wet and clinging to his frame. And then it came black: Scott finding out the truth about Donavan, confronting him, sending him away.

It was still dark in the woods, but there was an eerie quality to the light as if it was preparing to a new day. Dawn, then. The beginning of the many days he would've to face alone.

A noise called his attention and he looked in it's direction only to be stroke dumb. He was _not_ alone. Someone was there with him, crouching down into something, their back to him. It was too hard to see properly in the dark, but Stiles was positive that there was something leathery about their clothes, and their movements looked far too much like digging. He did his best to suppress his shiver, hoping against all logic that he wouldn't be found, that is grey clothes would hide him in the darkness.

He had nothing left to loose and no wish to die. It was a dangerous combination. More than anything, his heart was filled with hatred towards these so called doctors and the silver blood in their hands. He wasn't about to allow himself to be used that way; if he was to be a failure by any scale, it wouldn't be by theirs.

He held his breath when he saw a spark of light, readying himself to fight; but as the fire caught he could see that there were no masks or tubes in the figure trying to begin a bonfire. Only hair attached itself on the head, growing against the law of gravity, forming a high toupee.

Theo, probably. Good. He had never liked or trusted him anyway.

As the flames finally caught, Stiles could no longer hold his gasp. Because Theo had never had facial hair like that, nor was his hair so dark. At his sound, the figure turned towards him, fully revealing himself. The last person Stiles would have expected to find was the very person standing in the clearing with him.

“You woke up” his voice was raspy, as if he had been silent for too long. For once, Stiles could not think of an answer, and the man smiled softly at him. It tugged at Stiles’ heart; as he didn’t deserve that sort of kindness – that sort of comfort. “Come closer to the fire. It’s not much, but you must be freezing.”

The tone broke no argument; although generally he would have found something to argue about anyway. It was part of how they had related to each other – before. Now, he had no idea. Everything had changed while he had been away and Stiles was no longer the boy he once was. He let out a hollow laugh to think that it was someone he had never trusted that had come for him; someone he had often and continuously cast in a bad light.

Then again, they now shared the same bad light. Maybe he was not entitled to the comfort of friends after what he had done – and they had never been truly friends anyway – but it was fitting that he would accept solace from a killer.

Slowly, his muscles burning from standing in the cold too long, he moved towards the small fire. Derek moved to the other side, allowing him to soak up in the heat and handed him a bottle of water. He did not press Stiles for answers, nor made his usual impatient face – he simply waited. After drinking his share, he settled the bottle down.

Still Derek said nothing; not that Stiles has expected him to. He had never been the talkative type, and it wasn’t likely to have changed.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, unsure of how he felt about being found like that.

“Not long before you woke” he said, and moved his head to the side, towards the light. “Just long enough to gather some wood.”

That made Stiles frown – it seemed odd that Derek would have just come across him like that.

“What are you doing here?”

Derek snorted at the question and gestured around.

“It seems to me that I should be the one asking this question” he replied.

“You left Beacon Hills” Stiles answered, feeling the right to be annoyed – and even abandoned. “You left us.”

Derek moved his head from one side to the other, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He kept infuriatingly silent and it made Stiles’ blood burn with a rage he hadn’t even know he felt.

“You were just _gone_. After _everything_. As if we were nothing – as if… But why should I even be surprised? That’s your thing, isn’t it? Disappearing? And maybe you thought it would be okay – maybe you thought we could _handle_ it – and guess what? We _can’t_. We are just a bunch of kids running around! Scott had _just made a werewolf_ that still had _no idea_ how to control himself and that he didn’t know how to help. I mean, do you even know what sort of responsibility is that?!”  He had no idea when he had stood up, but he kept on, words spilling out of his mouth. “And then _they_ came – and we had _no one_. And it all got out of control, and now I’m not sure there even _is_ a _we_ – well, at least there isn’t for _me_ and it’s _all your fault_!” “You _should have_ stayed; we _have been needing_ you for a while now, and _no one_ could reach you or knew where you were!  And _where were you?_ ”

Derek’s initial reaction was to just raise his eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his outburst and not feeling like giving any sort of answer to his questions.

“And now you just _show up_ like _this_! WHY?!”

“You called” he answered, simply.

“I haven’t spoken with you in months” he spat back. “You didn’t answer when _any_  of use called, why would I bother _now?_ And I didn’t even _try_ – sorry, but you were _not_ the person I would have looked for right now.”

“No, Stiles, you don’t understand” Derek said, with a hint of a smile. “You _called_.”

That stopped him right in his tracks.

“What?”

Derek leaned his head to both side, like a dog that was being chased by a fly and took a deep breath before answering anything.

“You didn’t _phone_ me, I know, but last night – you _called_.”

Stiles just shook his head, not quite believing what he had heard.

“I’m not a werewolf – I can’t _call_ ” he said, using airquotes. That made Derek smirk, and wasn’t it just infuriating?! Not that he would have expected him to be helpful, but this was a whole other level of cryptic and maddening.

“You’re not a werewolf – but you do have a spark.”

Slowly, Deaton’s words from long ago seemed to trickle through his brain, but it didn’t clarify what on Earth Derek was on about.

“You’re going to have to be more clear” he announced, sitting back down. He was still pissed – at himself, at Scott, at the fucking supernatural world in general – but he was also curious.

Derek shrugged, as if he wasn’t sure how to begin, and then he started, his voice cautious.

“Before I left Deaton put some protections around the place – not on the ground, into the earth– no supernatural creature can enter the house area.”

It was Stiles turn to snort.

“Try again, pal. While you’ve been away some twisted doctors decided to create a whole new set of supernatural creatures that _can_ cross mountain ash. Pretty sure your alarm system is outdated.”

That gave the man a pause and he frowned.

“Come again?”

Stiles just waved the air for him to continue.

“It’s more than just mountain ash” he said, shrugging. I won’t pretend to understand everything he and Braeden did around here – but obviously if it were something as simple as a circle of mountain ash, I wouldn’t be able to cross either.” He sat himself a bit straighter. “It’s… complicated. Sigils and runes carved in yew and what-not. They’re keyed to blood, so that only a Hale can enter the space.”

“But _I_ entered” he pointed out, unnecessarily.

“You did” agreed the werewolf with a small smile. “You’re human, so it’s not supposed to keep you out anyway. It’s just meant to warn us to the presence supernaturals invading our space. But what you did – it was more than that.”

It was Stiles turn to frown, but Derek seemed as lost as he was.

“I have _no idea_ what you did – but you _did_ something that resonated with the wards they placed; you’re not a wolf, and it wasn’t a _call_ but it _felt_ like one. I’m not talking about the sound – it’s hard to explain, really – but… When someone _calls_ you, you feel it in your bones; in your heart; their voice reverberating in your head. It’s a pull, a compulsion. You _have_ to answer it – so I came.”

The two of them looked at each other, not knowing what to say. It seemed surreal, but then again, they lived in a world where every scrape of insanity became reality.

“I _called_ you” Stiles repeated, still trying to wrap his head around it, then he shook his head. “And you _felt_ it.”

“I ran the best part of the night” replied Derek somberly. “I first thought you were dead – but then I heard your heart beating.”

Stiles knew he should feel grateful for the effort, but it was hard when he felt his heart break all over again – the wards were attuned to blood; and their alarms had rang loud enough that   _Derek_ of all people came running – but he _wasn’t_ the only Hale free enough to answer. He couldn’t ignore the knowledge that Malia _had_ felt it, and hadn’t bothered to come. Even _she_ had sided with Scott over him – and how could she not? He _was_ her alpha. _He_ had saved her from a lifetime of living in the wild. How could he compare to that? He didn’t even _want_ to.

Derek obviously could smell his feelings, his face a mask of concern as he spoke again.

“Stiles… What happened?”

His voice was low and calm as if he was trying not to scare a wild animal, and the incongruence of it all was so big that Stiles didn’t know if he was about to cry or laugh; the absurdity of his life as it now was. Everything he thought he knew – everything he thought he _was_ – vanished in thin air only to be replaced by utter and complete insanity.

He knows the signs well enough; he knows this is a particularly strong panic attack mounting on; but as someone wise had once said, being aware of your shit and actually overcoming your shit were complete different things. He _knew_ what was happening, but he _couldn’t_ stop it, couldn’t control it.

So he wasn’t all that surprised when he felt his chest starting to compress, laughter being ripped off him maniacally; causing his whole body to shake. He laughed and he laughed although none of it was funny. He laughed and couldn’t breathe, and there were tears streaming from his eyes; his laughter becoming sobs that rob him of oxygen as he falls inside the darkness once more.

He sees the fear in Scott’s eyes when he pleaded to be believed.

He sees Donavan’s body, still standing, blood pouring out of it.

He sees the bodies of Tracy’s father and the officers; torn apart.

He sees death, all around him, and black bile coming out of his mouth.

He sees himself, vomiting and being vomited, and the horrible things he did.

He sees this body go down on water never to return whole.

He sees the old Argent, beating him up, his body shaking.

He sees Peter holding him down.

He sees Derek growling, eyes shining blue, ready to pounce.

… He sees Derek moving towards him.

Slowly; bit by bit; it starts to go away – the urgency, at least, but he was still finding it difficult to breath. It took him a while to notice that it was because Derek _did_ pounce; it wasn’t a memory – he was sprawled on the ground with the older man above him, pinning him down.

“I can’t breath” he muttered, and Derek moved away slowly; his left hand kept squeezing Stiles’ arm. It would bruise there later, but he doesn’t really care. They sat again, slowly. “Not sure _this_ is the best way to handle it, but thanks anyway.”

“ _That_ ” Derek said, a little out of breath. “ _That_ is what you did.”

“Huh?” Stiles was still a bit confused, his head working slower than usual – well, probably the same way it works for most people.

“Yesterday” Derek clarified. “ _That_ is what you did – I felt the calling again just now.”

“So what you’re saying is that you have an alarm against panic attacks? Maybe I should consider putting one around my house; it would make it easier to handle them.”

The werewolf wasn’t amused by his tirade, which was to be expected.

“It warns me of deep need” he growled, annoyed. “ _Clearly_.”

“And here I was, thinking it was all _peachy_.”

Derek let go of his arm, taking yet another deep breath.

“Stiles” he said, and there’s a tone of warning in his voice. “Tell me what happened.”

He didn’t _want_ to share, but it is almost impossible to keep quiet as he mumbled his answer to the wolf, quick and low like ripping off a Band-Aid.

“Scott hates me. He kicked me out of the pack.”

Derek’s eyebrows rose at that, as if he didn’t quite believed his ears. Stiles could totally relate to it; he could barely believe it himself.

“Why on Earth would he do that?”

Stiles hasn’t said it yet – he hasn’t said the words to _anyone_. Theo saw it all; and Scott already knew. He wasn’t able to speak of it. The moment he said it out loud, it all would become just… _too real_. Too unforgivable. If he actually admitted it, no one would listen – they’d all leave. If he confessed, he would prove to Scott that he _was_ right – he wasn’t good enough; he wasn’t worthy of having ever been part of the pack.

Derek was still waiting, his expression confused. It wouldn’t last, Stiles knew. As soon as the words left his mouth, he would understand it all.

Then again – this was _Derek_. He had never been one for saving people. If there was anyone he _could_ confess to, it was Derek. He had been there – more than once – he knew how it weighted in one’s heart to have their hands covered in the blood of another person; the despair of knowing there wasn’t another way.

“I killed someone” Stiles whispered, looking at his own hands.

For a few seconds, he couldn’t raise his head, too ashamed and guilty; afraid of the judgment that certainly would be in Derek’s eyes – because that was who he had been _before_ ; he had changed in the last few years. He had never been a murder, not like Stiles, at least not anymore.

When he looked back at the werewolf, his expression was unreadable, but the grip in his arm became supportive instead of crushing.

“Start from the beginning” the man ordered, and there was nothing he could do but obey; words spilling out of his mouth right away.


End file.
